Beauty and the Beast FanFiction - Alternate Universe
by Scrappy LeMonte
Summary: I loved the TV show, but I have a few problems with it. If I were going to re-write the fairy tale, this would be it. Having said that, I will say that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, so I did absorb the characters of the TV show. And a bit of FanFiction, so I'm shouting out to CL, author of Communities: ty, and text me! :D
1. Chapter 1

There was only one farm left, holding out. She was on her way to see them right now. She'd been contemplating what she could offer them…she wondered what they wanted. She'd have to see their place, gauge their needs…then she would know how to manipulate them.

She'd flown into Kansas City from New York that morning, checked into her hotel, and picked up her car. She'd rented a BMW convertible, Z4 sDrive35is, Valencia orange, 335 horsepower, three liters, six cylinders. It was tearing up the road. The sun was shining, the wind was ruffling her hair. She was en route to swindle some rubes out of their farm. Life was good.

Discovering weakness and exploiting it, that was her strong suit. She'd negotiated acquisition after merger after hostile take-over, and had been enormously successful. She'd always gotten several referrals from every client, and was actually leading the firm in some new directions. She was also working on developing a 'Financial Advising' department, meaning evading income taxes by exploiting every known loophole in the tax code; discovering new ones would be the next step. It was tough getting out from underneath the shadow of her father, founder of the firm, 'The Great One,' as he was reverently but affectionately known, but she was starting to make her mark.

Her client for this mission was a corporate farm, who was buying up land in the area for chicken and hog production and processing. There was no reason why this purchase should not have been as effortless as the rest, but for some reason, the owners were steadfast in their refusal to sell. It was a little bit of an unusual situation—it was a commune, a real, live hippie commune in the Ozark hills of Missouri. But why the drop outs were hanging on was unknown; there were hundreds of thousands of acres up for grabs in the US. What made this dirt special? The client needed it because of the complexity of transportation systems, EPA Regulations, state laws in regard to animal husbandry, and tax liability considerations. Cathy set a goal for herself to get them to sell under market value, thereby endearing herself to the client. Down the line, the client would eventually be sued for polluting the nearby rivers and the ground water with runoff from the animal production, and she could swoop in and grab that business, as well.

Her headset fed her a call. "Cathy? It's Paula. Hey, I hit a wall on this Jaguar, and I don't know what to do." This was another new avenue for the firm, automobile repossessions. It wasn't glamorous, but it was a cash cow. But they had to find the cars, so Cathy had advised her repo supervisor, Paula, to call if she had any problems. "He blew town, Cathy. I had the tow guy, Larry, knock the door where Mr. Jaguar lived. Larry said no one answered the door, so he looked in the windows. The place is empty."

"Hmm…by chance, do we have a copy of the loan application?"

"I'll look. Okay, yeah, here."

"Did he list references? Any with the same last name?"

"Yeah."

"Is there an address?"

"No, just a phone number."

"Do a reverse lookup on the phone number to get the address and scout it out. I'll bet it turns out to be his parents. I'll bet we find our jag in the driveway."

"Okay. The phone number is coming up as a Phoenix, Arizona landline. I'll get a wrecker out there and let you know how it goes."

"Okay. Thanks, Paula." _That would be so cool if they found it; I'd look like a genius at being able to find a car that far away._ She flipped through the music on her iPhone, _Eminem was always fun, J. Cole…Jay-Z, of course…Kimbra…Fiona…hmm, didn't I have some techno, that might be fun…man, I've been driving for a couple hours, how much farther is it? _ She reached for the GPS unit.

The view was certainly fabulous. The highway wove atop a limestone outcropping, a few hundred feet above the valley. Breathtaking views of deep valleys were on either side. The hills were covered thickly with tall trees, lush and verdant. The air was so fresh…_ha! Enjoy that while you can, bumpkins! After these animals come in, you'll never get a breath of fresh air!_

Vincent, Mouse, Winslow, Kanin were at the eastern edge of the farm. They had been talking about planting hazelnut trees, and were surveying the land that morning to identify the best locations.

When the deer sprang in front of her car, she didn't even know what it was. She over-steered, and the car flew through the barrier on the side of the road. She flew, airborne, down the limestone embankment. The Beemer flipped not only side to side, but also end over end. The men watched the car tumble through the air then bounce off the limestone bedrock, and fly some more. Without a word, they jumped back into the pickup, and sped to the scene.

The truck kicked up a cloud of dust as it skidded to a stop. The men jumped out and ran to the car. It had fallen two hundred feet from the road above, and lay on its side in the valley meadow. It sickened them to see it was a convertible; the driver was not in it, meaning they'd been ejected. They were probably on a recovery mission, not a rescue. They spread out and started searching for the body.

Vincent held his head up as if listening. "Hey!" he yelled at the others. "This way!"

"Do you see something?"

"No…I just have a feeling they're this way." He ran to the truck and pulled out the stretcher and the first aid kit. They carried emergency equipment on every vehicle; their farm was in extremely remote country.

He ran back to the embankment, and the others followed. Vincent pulled ahead of the others and reached Cathy first. He knelt down next to her immediately, and started assessing and taking vital signs. When the others reached her, they froze. Her arms and legs were obviously broken in several places, with some compound fractures, as well. Her jaw was broken in two places, one on each side of her face and that was the worst. It flapped open, and her tongue lolled out. Her face was hideous. Mouse turned to retch, and Winslow and Kanin wanted to.

Vincent was working on her, so he must've thought she was alive. "Tell us what to do, Vincent," Winslow said. The three of them, working quickly, immobilized her neck and spine, and rolled her onto the stretcher.

She was unconscious for ten days, and she did not regain orientation all at once. She drifted back, a bit at a time, over the course of several days. As she drifted, she was aware of a Friend, drifting with her. She felt as if she was on a raft, floating down a lazy river, dozing in gentle sunshine, and the Friend was with her, steering them both to shore. She felt the coziness and security of an embrace, but no arms were around her. Her next conscious impression was of light; then hands touching her, rolling her, lifting her, holding her hand. Next, there was sound. Voices. Soft, they spoke to her gently. She recognized the Friend's voice. He read out loud to her, as well as sustaining her silently, his heart to hers. Next, there was sight and smell. She opened her eyes one morning, and saw the Friend, dozing in a chair next to the bed she laid in. She smiled at him, and he slowly opened his eyes and smiled back, with his face and his heart. His face was interesting, sort of cat-like, or lion-like. He leaned forward and cradled her fingertips in his huge palm. He was a big guy. She liked his mane. He stroked her cheek with one finger. His hand smelled clean, like soap, and sort of like cinnamon. She thought that must be his scent. It was nice.

A little while later, another man came in, and talked to the Friend. Something about comprehension, and she didn't have any. He had a nice smile, too.

In a few days, she regained her sense of touch. The Friend was sitting beside her bed, reading to her. He'd laced his fingers through hers, and she felt his furriness. She liked it, and made little swirls in it with her fingertips. He looked up from the book, and they smiled at each other. Then she became aware that smiling hurt her face, her jaw especially. Then she became aware of how much pain she was in throughout her body.

The Friend left her side, went out the door, and yelled, "Father!" He returned quickly, and took her hand. That helped. The other man with the nice smile came rushing in. The Friend told him she was in pain, could he give her something? She was starting to pant, and sweat; she heard buzzing in her ears, and her stomach felt queasy. Father quickly picked up a small glass bottle and a syringe, and bent over her.

"No, don't turn your head, Belle. Please hold still, please try not to move," said the Friend. The pain ebbed away, and she relaxed. Maybe it was the Friend asking her not to move, but for whatever reason, she realized she could not move, not even her mouth.

"Belle—I call you 'Belle' because we don't know your name, and you are beautiful," the Friend said, "soon we will talk about how you came to be here, and why you're in pain, and why you can't talk right now. But don't be afraid. Soon, you will not be in pain, and soon, you will be able to talk and move. And you will be able to go wherever you want, whenever you want. But right now, we are taking very good care of you, so please don't worry about anything. You need to get some rest now, so if you feel a little sleepy, just go ahead and relax…" And she was asleep.

One day she woke up from her afternoon nap, and she remembered who she was, and what she was doing there. And in that moment, an evil, black, death star eclipsed the warm golden rays of the Friend's tender attentions; frost gripped her heart. She felt more sadness than she'd ever felt in all her adult life. She'd lost something, something golden, something precious. She'd felt so cherished by the Friend, who she now realized was named Vincent, so protected, warm and safe. Now that she realized it was _him_ who needed protecting-from _herself_, no less, how could she ever get that feeling back? She wanted it back. She had to have it back. She became distraught, and then Vincent came rushing into the room. One look at him, and she started to cry (or at least turn the corners of her mouth down, sniffle, and gasp; she hadn't cried tears since her mother died, when she was a child). She didn't care about the pain from her broken ribs, cracked vertebrae or from the incision to repair her lacerated liver. Her heart was breaking over losing the best thing she'd ever had in her life, and she was determined to cry about it. Naturally, the more Vincent tried to soothe her, the more distraught she became. In her heart, she cried out to him to hold her close. He lifted her up in his arms with her quilt. She fought down the Snide Voice in her head that snickered she had become the Tin Man, clanking around in casts, back brace, cervical collar; or Frankenstein's monster, yeah, that was a more apt analogy, she'd come out here to cheat these people and here they were, saving her life, pouring their resources into healing her…more than that, cherishing her. Vincent settled in a rocking chair with her on his lap. He laid her head on his shoulder, tucked the quilt in around her shoulders, and he rocked her, slowly, gently. She relaxed a little, enough to hope that he would once again cherish her if she dropped her chicken-slash-hog-factory-farm client. Oh! She could even represent them, represent them _pro bono_, defend them against the farm. Oh, yeah! That was it! That was the ticket…gosh, she felt like she was melting into Vincent, he was so warm, and strong…maybe she could even put some English on it, a little embroidery, some spin, and tell them _that's _what she was coming here for in the first place_,_ that she'd _become aware…couldn't allow a huge corporation to swallow up…only wish I'd been in time…help your…neighbors… _ She was asleep.

Father entered the room. "Could you figure out what was wrong?"

"No," murmured Vincent. "Whatever it was, it's gone now."

"Thank God she didn't aspirate. You know, she must be part cat; she seems to have nine lives. Do you need any help getting her back to bed?"

"No, thank you, Father, I have everything I need right here," he said very softly as he closed his eyes and nestled against her.


	2. Chapter 2

"Why did you stop reading?" she asked. Father had removed the wires from her jaw a few days earlier. It would be weeks before her casts could come off.

They didn't have televisions here, but poor Vincent, bless his heart, really tried to keep her entertained by reading to her, working crosswords, and talking to her. Because it was so remote, the commune had its own clinic. After they'd stabilized her, they didn't want to transfer her to a hospital in Springfield for fear of her coding on the way. After that danger passed, there wasn't much of a point in transferring her. Father was a doctor, a surgeon. Mary was a nurse. Vincent was pinch hitting as a nurse assistant. She wouldn't get better care at a Springfield hospital.

"You're smiling. What's funny?"

"Nothing's funny. I'm sorry, Vincent, my mind wandered a little, just for a minute. Please continue. I enjoy the sound of your voice so much, so deep, so resonant, it's very pleasant. And you read with such wonderful inflection, really, your int—"

"Stop it."

"Pardon?"

"Stop trying to flatter me to distract me from the real issue, which is, what is it that you find funny?"

She was a bit put off. "I find it disturbing that you suspect me of base motives at best, or to be a liar, at worst. I do enjoy your reading, and I don't want you to stop." She looked thoughtful. "If you stopped, I would miss it. I'd be sorry." She stopped, but he knew if he remained silent, she had more to say. "I don't have base motives, neither am I a liar. I've received a great deal of training on good manners, starting in my childhood. It's terrible to hurt other people's feelings. Not only does it hurt them, it takes my worth from me. Oh, yes, I was a deb; being a boor is a real fall from grace. Then in my professional career, my success depends on making people feel good about themselves. I'm afraid you mistake my reluctance to insult you, for dishonesty."

"How would you insult me? Do you think I'm funny?"

"No! It's the book, the book's funny!" Her eyes grew huge. No one ever tripped her up like that, NO ONE, NOT EVER. Rushing to avoid insulting him, he got her to admit complete unvarnished truth, her honest opinion. _How did he do it? Now watch him get mad, I'm going to insult his precious book! _

"How is the book funny?"

_Man, he just doesn't quit…he could have some kind of future in law, I know he could…_ "Vincent, I know you love that book. You think very highly of it. I don't want to criticize it because that would hurt your feelings."

He was surprised. "I would not be insulted by your criticism of Great Expectations. Please, tell me."

Stalling, "I have to be honest with you…" _AH! Thank you, Jesus, inspiration at last! _"I'm embarrassed, actually, that I don't understand it. To my mind, it seems to go on and on, at very great length, but it never says anything. It never comes to the point. I was smiling because I could just hear my dad, he was a judge for many years, so I could just imagine him saying, 'Counsel, you are thirty seconds away from contempt! Make your point, now!' Maybe you could explain it to me, Vincent. What is Dickens trying to say? Ah, ha, ha, what the dickens is Dickens trying to say, ha-ha-ha-ha?"

He smiled. "The theme of this book, what Dickens is saying, Catherine, is that affection, loyalty and conscience are more important than social advancement, wealth, or class." He saw her blink. _Oh, god, what did I just say? Maybe I could learn some manners!_ "Catherine," he said quickly, "I didn't know who you were when I started reading this to you, please don't think I was trying to lecture or berate you."

"No, of course not." She smiled, catching herself. "What I mean is, thank you for saying that. So, it's affection, loyalty and conscience are more important than wealth, social position—"

"Social advancement," he corrected, "wealth, social advancement, or class."

She nodded. "Hmm," she said. And, "Huh. Mmm-hmm."

Vincent searched her eyes. "Are you insulted?"

"No. No, I…I disagree."

He blinked. "You disagree?"

"Well, yes. That's a, umm, an impractical idea."

He closed the book. "Catherine, you intrigue me. Please, go on."

"If it was truly better to possess virtue rather than to be wealthy, then why does everyone want to trade places with me, and yet, I don't want to trade places with anyone?"

He had no answer, so she went on. "Vincent, the poor, the uneducated, are at the mercy of the rich. Money is power. Money appoints judges, elects politicians, passes laws. Courts aren't for the common people; they never were. Courts exist to protect the privileges of the wealthy. The idea that being a good person is superior to being rich is not only romantic, it's naïve."

And go on, she did. Daily. Tentatively at first, but growing in boldness, daily.

One day: "Really, Vincent," she laughed lightly, dismissive, "you can't be serious. Even if all wealth was redistributed, and everyone started out with the same money, it would only be a matter of time before things went right back to the way they are now, some people would be fabulously rich, and most would be dirt poor. You can handle money or you can't."

"…honestly, Vincent, some of your ideas…well, they're just really out there, so to speak. I don't mean to be rude, but after all, it was Adam and _Eve_, not Adam and _Steve_. If we allow people of the same sex to marry, it debases the institution for the rest of us."

"…is there really any such thing as a suicide _attempt_? If you're going to do it, you do it. Attempting is just trying to get attention, and probably more importantly, a way to get admitted to the hospital. Which is where they keep the really good drugs, which is probably what they actually wanted, a good high. And free, too."

Vincent was storming out, again. As he strode through the great room, Father, worried, called, "Where are you going?"

"Hunting!" Vincent yelled.

Another day: "…yes, but we are not entitled to the freedom to make our own choices? Do _you_ want to be told how you must live? But at the same time, we have to take ownership for our choices and we must live with the consequences of our choices. If you don't want to work, then you are going to be homeless. If you don't want to be homeless, you have to work. Vincent, you have to admit the possibility that some people might _want_ to be homeless. And we certainly can't coddle people. We'd have _everyone_ claiming to be mentally or physically disabled."

"…well, three point two might _sound_ like a lot of money, but I'm hardly _rich_. The amount I need to reinvest in my business and keep a roof over my head is more like four million, so I might _barely_ have one point two to invest."

"…well we can't _all_ be brain surgeons…"

"…how can people follow their dreams if government never stops interfering? There's absolutely nothing wrong with doing everything they can to pay the minimum amount of income tax possible. Yes, corporations, too."

"There goes Vincent," observed Jamie.

"Vincent?" called Father.

"HUNTING!" yelled Vincent.

Mary banged her coffee mug down on the table. "Well, the freezers are full! If he brings anything home, we'll have to make jerky out of it."

Another day: "Maybe you can tell me just when it was that we gave government the right to dispose of the rights of the individual and the fruits of our labor…"

"I don't know how I read some of these same books when I was in high school, and yet we never talked about anything like this…"

"…well, so long as you had a good contract, you know, fair, I really don't see anything inherently wrong with indentured servitude…"

"…I have to confess, I've never understood why that's considered to be great poetry. I could write poetry in the same meter, same rhyming pattern…"

No matter what he said to her, it just rolled off her shoulders, like water off a duck's back. She took nothing personally; she took nothing to heart. No, of course not, she couldn't afford to, she had to be thinking of her _answer_, her answering argument. That's what made her a great lawyer; that's why she never lost. She knew what he was going to say before he said it. He couldn't get through to her, he couldn't reach her; the authentic her, the her that had ceased to exist years ago when that last layer of attorney-ation took hold, but yet was truly _her_. He wanted to throttle the changeling exoskeleton that encased her, but the cure would kill the patient.

Their eyes followed Vincent as he stomped out.

Yet another day: Vincent looked at her, laying back on plumped pillows, neck encased in a cervical collar, pillows supporting her broken arms. He held two volumes in his hands, Benjamin Zephaniah and William Blake. _What Stephen Lawrence has Taught Us_, Zephaniah, and _Songs of Innocence_, Blake. Which path to take, the difficult, steep one, or the easy, smooth one? Keep fighting, or throw in the sponge? He'd almost decided on a quiet afternoon, and was about to shelve Zephaniah, when she smiled at him.

"Can't decide?" she asked. There was something in her tone…what was that? He was looking at a woman, but he saw a girl. And she was doing that thing, avoiding direct eye contact with him, shifting her line of sight, like a child not a woman. Was there no potential here? No possibility for growth, was he sure? He sighed. He put down Blake, and opened Zephaniah.

"I'd like to read you a poem by Benjamin Zephaniah called _What Stephen Lawrence Has Taught Us_. Stephen Lawrence was a young black man living in London who was murdered while he waited for a bus. His murder was racially motivated." He read:

_We know who the killers are,  
>We have watched them strut before us<br>As proud as sick Mussolinis',  
>We have watched them strut before us<br>Compassionless and arrogant,  
>They paraded before us,<br>Like angels of death  
>Protected by the law.<em>

_It is now an open secret  
>Black people do not have<br>Chips on their shoulders,  
>They just have injustice on their backs<br>And justice on their minds,  
>And now we know that the road to liberty<br>Is as long as the road from slavery._

"Excuse me?" she said.

He tried to brace himself.

"I'm going to have to disagree with the author, here. I'm very sorry that young man was murdered, and I do believe that was very wrong, and the murderer deserves to be punished. But I must say, in my experience, black people do have chips on their shoulders. Black people are very over-sensitive."

"That's disgusting."

"I know, you'd think they'd be a _little_ appreciative, all the enterprise zones, affirmative action—"

"NO! I mean _your attitude_ is disgusting! It's racist!" He started to pace.

"Oh, my. Do you care? You're not black. You know, I'll wager that even if I said 'black people have curly hair,' you'd be calling me a racist. Because we _do_ in fact classify people as black, white, Asian, there _are_ such things as distinguishing characteristics that allow us to make the classification. Black people _do_ have curly hair, and they _are_ over-sensitive."

He looked at her, incredulous. "Are you screwing with me?!" It was out of his mouth before he could stop it: vernacular, vulgar. Instead of pulling her up, she was pulling him down! "You're like a drowning person, pulling me down into a pool of ignorance with you! We don't draw the distinctions based upon BEHAVIOR!"

"Are you saying it's not possible that any behavior is genetically predisposed? Haven't you ever noticed how cousins sometimes make the same gestures, or walk the same way, or make the same facial expressions, or have the same attitudes?"

"I liked you so much better before you started talking again. If behavior is controlled by genes, then wouldn't brothers and sisters all behave the same way?"

"For heaven's sake, they're children, _offspring_, not clones." She paused, had a thought, and resumed, "I can give you an absolutely crystal clear illustration of what I'm saying. Several weeks ago, I was at the office when I noticed a flyer on someone's bulletin board, announcing a car wash to benefit one of the public high schools. And by the way, the school is attended by a majority of African-American students. The announcement said the car wash would be held starting at seven o'clock in the morning, so, quote, 'get out da bed and be there,' end quote. There was also a flyer for a rap concert at the high school, and it used the word 'bitches', misspelled with a 'z', no less. The admin who hung the flyers was black, so, trying to be nice and make conversation with her, I said, 'Yes, ma'am, I loves me some car wash-ezz and rap concert-zzz!' Well, she laughed, so I guess she thought my remark was funny, and she appreciated me speaking to her, but one of our attorneys, who is black, got so upset! He told me he wouldn't be surprised if one day I wore black-face make-up to the office. I mean, what did I say? I hear black women using the phrase, 'I loves me some,' all the time. Why get upset when I use it? Over-sensitive, I call it. Or should I say, 'Das wud I calls it!'?" She laughed lightly, and smiled brightly, and waited for him to be charmed.

His eyes blazed. He stormed up to the bed, pointing at her. _"I wish I would have left you lying in the ditch where I found you!"_

Her mouth fell open. She was aghast, unable to catch her breath. And she felt _pain_. Actual _pain_, that he was upset with her.

Almost blind with fury, but he could see that she was genuinely confused. "Allow me to explain, BITCH, that when you are an enormously wealthy, highly educated white woman, and you imitate the vernacular of a vastly poor, under-educated minority, you are MOCKING them!"

She looked astonished, then like she was about to cry. "Please don't call me bitch," she pleaded softly, and swallowed. Her eyebrows drew together and her eyes darted left and right as she tried to sort it out. "I wasn't mocking her, I was…_joining_ her, attempting to be intimate" she said just above a whisper, pleading for understanding.

Vincent sighed. "You can't join them. You can't ever join them. You…you have…how do I explain this…you have too much power over them…you're holding all the cards, your wealth, you own the firm, your position in society…see? That's not the way those people took it, and that's why the black attorney got angry. The Admin Assist was probably laughing because she thought you were being an ass, which made her better than you. I can just imagine her talking to her friends, it would sound something like, 'all the money in the world can't buy good manners'."

Catherine was crushed. She was doubly crushed, because she'd fouled where she believed she reigned, manners. Her defining characteristic, good manners. She started to pant with anxiety.

"Oh, god…oh, god, what have I done? What have I done? I hurt their feelings…I…I like Monique, the admin, I _like_ her! And I've done something to hurt her, to make her think of me as an asshole…and Darrin…oh, my god…I deliberately assigned a client to someone else instead of him because he yelled at me…oh, my god, I've got to make this right, I've got to make this right, Vincent! I'm so sorry! I am so very sorry!"

Vincent sat down in a chair next to the bed. She was completely distressed. "And _you're_ upset with me. You're…" she almost couldn't say the word, "_disgusted_ by me. Quite right, that's as it should be. Could you leave me alone now, please, Vincent?"

He took her hand. "Please, Vincent? I don't know how you can stand to look at me, really."

He cupped her cheek and tried to turn her to face him, but she resisted. "Oh, no, you don't know, you have _no_ idea, no idea, I'm starting to recall ALL the things I've done and said—oh, my, god! I'm _ashamed_! Please, Vincent! Go!"

He knelt next to the bed and put his arms around her waist, the only place she wasn't buttressed by casts or braces, and didn't budge when she tried to shove him away.

"I won't go. Stop pushing. You're not the world's biggest villain…you'll make good on this…I'm sorry I yelled at you…"

"Oh, no, don't apologize, please…"

"I'm sorry I called you 'bitch'," he said, and kissed her head. "I was trying to wake you up."

"Thank you for waking me up," she said from the depth of his chest.

"This was a self-inflicted wound, it's going to be painful for some time…Catherine, lean on me, it's the only relief for this kind of pain," he whispered.

She was quiet for a moment, then spoke. "Do you really wish you'd left me in the ditch?"

He hugged her tighter. "I'm sorry I said that. I was _so_ angry with you. I was angry because I knew you were better than that." He sighed. "Self-inflicted wounds…I hate them the most."

Late in the afternoon, Father joined Vincent, leaning on the garden gazebo.

He sighed. "She drives me mad, Father. She's everything that's wrong with society. Harsh, insensitive, greedy, pompous, uncaring, apathetic, poorly educated…"

"It sounds as though you can hardly stand to be in the same room with her."

"Yes."

"And yet you spend all your time with her. Well, when you're not hunting."

"Yes."

"Why?"

He shook his head. A smile spread itself slowly across his lips.

"I know that smile," said Father. "I once had that same smile on my lips."

Vincent shook his head and sighed. "I think I'll ask her if she wants to watch the sunset," he said. Father watched his back disappear into the house.

"Catherine?" called Vincent as he knocked on her door.

"Yes," she called out through sniffles.

"Are you crying?"

"Yes. I was reading this poem, and it was so sad…I was overwhelmed."

"What poem were you reading?"

"It's called _What Does My Life Mean?_

I wear beautiful clothes

I style my hair

If I died tomorrow

Would anyone care?

Whose life did I change?

What soul did I touch?

Did I do any good?

Not really; not much.

Dear God, please help me.

Please, God, hear my prayer.

While I live on this earth,

I want someone to care.

"I've never heard that poem before. Who wrote it?"

"Can't you tell? Its caliber makes it worthy only of a greeting card," she said with no bitterness, but only regret.

"Catherine, I said that in anger, and I am sorry. You have some very fine moments in your poetry. Let me carry you out to watch the sunset."

He gathered her in his arms and carried her, through the garden, to the gazebo. He sat down on the bench, and held her on his lap. She tried to slide off, but he held her. "No," he said softly. She smiled, and settled back against him.

The sunset was filled with impossibly vivid color. The sun was a fiery golden ball, sinking low on the horizon. The sky above was a robin's egg blue canvas, streaked with pink, orange, and purple.

"It's beautiful," she said.

"Yes."

"You know, after you…go, it's usually Lena who helps me pick up the book you've…thrown, and I re-read the words we were talking about, and I try to read them from a different perspective, from the perspective that would be the opposite of mine. You have awakened me, Vincent." Something felt different. The way she was talking was different, holding a steady gaze into his eyes instead of looking just past him. "Money, money, money…it's hollow, it's not enough. It's gotta be about people."

He sighed. "Yes."


	3. Chapter 3

Vincent's Taj community was coming today for a picnic, and a game of lacrosse. The farm residents were bustling about, setting up tables, lighting the bar-be-que grill, icing down canned drinks in coolers.

"Cathy, your bones are perfect," said Father. They'd gone outside to remove her casts, so as to not fill the house with plaster dust. They filled a trash bin. "You'd better stay with us for another few weeks for some physical therapy," he said. She was sitting in a wheelchair; after not walking for six weeks, she would not be able to.

"Ugh, I didn't realize how bad it would smell," said Catherine.

Father laughed. "Yes, six weeks of sweat and sloughed skin, inside plaster…Vincent, help Catherine get washed up, would you?"

In her room, he started to gather sponge bath equipment, but she preempted him with, "Vincent, do you think you could help me with a real shower?"

He inclined his head to show assent.

"Oh, thank you, so much! To be able to wash my hair in an actual shower! I'm so excited!" She was stretching, bending, testing and flexing muscles and joints that had been immobilized for weeks.

He put a shower chair in the stall, and started the warm water. He helped her take her clothes off, and began to notice how very lovely her body was. For six weeks, he'd bathed her, helped her with a bedpan, dressed and undressed her, but now that she was unencumbered by plaster or cervical collars, it was harder to deny his arousal.

"Ohmuhgosh, Vincent," she said as he picked her up, "I smell so bad! I am so sorry you got stuck doing this for me! Do you want me to pinch your nose shut?"

"Trust me when I tell you it's not bothering me at all," he said. _2014 Royals, sixth game of the World Series, Billy Butler has a game-tying RBI single in the first_, he thought, trying to put out the flames.

He lowered her into the shower chair, tested the water. There was a hand held shower head, which she could use, although she had to use both of her hands.

"Oh, my gosh, this feels so _good_," she moaned, moving the stream from her head down her body.

_Salvador Perez doubled in two and Omar Infante followed with a two-run homer in the sixth inning…_

"Huh. You know, I'd kind of forgotten that one day it would be time for me to go home. It'll be hard to leave." Her eyes settled on Vincent.

Vincent looked away, focusing on soaping her body. The joy he'd felt at seeing her freed from the plaster stocks was immediately replaced by cold anxiety at the prospect of losing her.

"I'll miss you, Vincent," she said, and waited for him to answer. When he remained silent, she continued, "I guess I'd better start trying to figure out what to do for a job."

"What do you mean?" asked Vincent. "You'll go back to your law firm."

"I can't. I can't do that anymore. I mean, I can practice law, but I can't get back into the cesspool and swim with the sharks anymore."

"Why not?" He poured some shampoo into her hair.

"What do you mean, 'why not', Professor Higgins? You know damn well, why not, because my conscience is functional once more, thanks to you. Mmmmmmmm, ahhhhh," she moaned as he massaged her scalp, "Vincent, that feels _wonderful!_ Mmmm…maybe I'll switch to real estate…or estate planning…hmm. Oh, maybe I could teach. Huh. Teaching…teaching and public speaking…" she thought for a moment. "I wonder if I could work for a think tank…"

"…in New York…" added Vincent. He didn't need to think about baseball now. The flame of his ardor had been quenched by the smothering reality that he was going to lose her.

Catherine was silent for a moment. "Yes, in New York," she answered.

"Your friends and family will be so happy when you return."

"I'll be glad to see them, too. But I'll miss you. Will you miss me, Vincent?"

"Yes, very much. But New York is your home." They were finished. He shut off the water and wrapped her in towels. He carried her to her bed, and sat her down. He retrieved a hair dryer, and plugged it in close to her.

She was silent, then said, "Yes, New York is my home." She brightened a bit. "It's where I keep my stuff." A leopard can never truly change its spots, and while she may have changed, she was still fundamentally the same. It hurt, enormously, that he did not ask her to stay. But why had he not? Had she misread his feelings toward her? Was there some reason he would not want her to stay? She needed answers, but she'd never find them by acting mopey, so she affected cheerfulness, an old, well practiced ploy.

"It's where you hang your hat," said Vincent, also affecting cheerfulness. His instinct prodded him to tell her that he wanted her to stay. But his reason asked, snidely, stay and do what? Set up housekeeping and abide with him? He had a mental image of dozens of men vying for her attention, rich men, powerful men. That was where she belonged, dressing in fine clothes, leading important meetings at her office, attending charity galas, not wearing thrift store pickings, rejoicing in the come ups, and cooking his meals. And eventually, she should be a wife to a man with a position in society, a thought that made him clench his teeth.

"Home sweet home," she said. Her hair was beautiful, wild, free. It had no respect for the part he made in it; it flowed defiantly. Her bang refused to stay brushed up and off her face; it hung down willfully, framing her eyes

"Home is where the heart is," he said, and regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth. He helped her on with her foundations, then jeans and a tee shirt.

"Yes. There's no place like home," she said, and she failed to keep her annoyance with him out of her voice_. Where the heart is my ass, _she fumed._ My heart is here with you. Why don't you feel the same way?_

"East or west, home is best," he said, revealing some of his frustration in his tone.

"The lights are on, but nobody's home," she snarled.

"Nothing to write home about," he growled.

"Is there a problem?" she snapped.

"No. What are you upset about?"

"Nothing!" She showed her teeth.

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

He carried her back outside, and sat her down at a picnic table. Trucks and vans carrying the members of his community started to arrive, and he left her to meet them. Brooke and Claire came out carrying trays of raw hamburgers, chicken and ribs to be grilled.

Jennifer, Mary and Emily came out, carrying plates and tablecloths. They started wiping down the picnic table Catherine was sitting at.

"Looks like they're going to start the game," said Mary. It was going to be Shirts versus Skins; half of them were peeling off tees. "C'mon, Cathy, I'll help you inside."

"Why do I want to go inside?"

"These games can get pretty rough," said Mary.

"Still, Mary," said Emily, "there's a lot of time before they do, and the game is so exciting." She sounded wistful.

"Yes," agreed Jennifer, "very exciting." _Definitely a dreaminess in her voice_, thought Catherine.

"Holler if you change your mind," said Mary, and she disappeared back into the house.

_Not very likely_, Catherine thought. Glancing over, she discovered the breathtaking cause of the women's beguilement. No artist ever portrayed masculinity more divinely than these beings embodied it. They had leonine facial features, and beautiful flowing manes. Tawny blond, honey blond, golden blond, streaked with cinnamon, tan, caramel. Backs bulging with sinewy, ropey muscles; chests stretched wide with huge, carved muscles; arms rippling-_rippling!-_with brawny muscles. Long, unbelievably long quadriceps, the muscle so massive it was _mounded_, stretched from hips to knees.

Brooke and Claire meandered over. "Do they have _more_ muscles than human men, or are they just more massive?" asked Brooke.

"Hmmm…" said Emily.

"Hard to say…" Jennifer let her sentence trail off.

"Let's keep looking, maybe we can figure it out," said Emily.

"Those arms look so strong a girl could get lost in them," sighed Claire.

"Oh, yeah, once he got his arms around you, you couldn't get away," said Brooke. She sighed, closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

"If you wanted to," breathed Catherine.

Vincent had peeled off his shirt, and Catherine was lost in a fog of admiration. He was the first to face off for his team. He squared up to his opponent. The official blew his whistle to commence play; Vincent threw a right cross which knocked his opponent out, and scooped up the ball.

Vincent ran down field, opponents trailing. Catherine marveled at his grace, the beauty of his form. Amazing.

"Yes," agreed Brooke. Catherine hadn't realized she'd spoken.

Vincent reached the midfielders. He body checked most of them, others he winded with an elbow to the stomach. He slung the ball into the goal, then broke his stick over his knee and flung it away. He and his mates chest-bumped and roared.

Catherine was almost panting. "I know," said Brooke, putting a hand on her shoulder; Claire, Emily and Jennifer sighed, murmured and moaned agreement.

Vincent's victim from up-field had recovered and came at him at full sprint. He launched himself at Vincent, tackling him without ever slowing down. While they rolled and wrestled, Catherine marveled at his strength, the beauty of his body, his agility.

The other players left them to it and played the next point. Vincent and his wrestling partner rejoined the game and played the next point. Some of them were getting warm from exertion, and their skin started to glow with sweat. They didn't have large amounts of fur on their bodies, more like a fine covering of it starting at the sides of their ribs, thickening toward the spine, none lower than their ribcage. Another fine covering of fur covered their thighs, but only enough to accentuate their well-developed quadriceps. A few at a time started shedding their shorts, or jeans, or whatever pants they wore, and…

"Oh, my goodness. Loincloths?" asked Catherine, surprised, and appreciative.

"Loincloths," echoed the women severally, and appreciatively.

"They have like, it's more than a foreskin, it's less than a sheath…" explained Brooke.

"…so they can get by with…" started Claire.

"…loincloths," finished Emily.

"I've got chills," said Catherine.

"We all do," said Jennifer.

The women's eyes narrowed, and their chests heaved. Brooke bit down on her lower lip, which was noticed by one of the Taj. "Oh, my god," he remarked to his fellows, "she kills me when she does that." He missed the break, and was knocked down by the flow of the game.

He limped over to the women. "Hi, ladies" he said softly, looking at Brooke.

"Hi, Alby," whispered Brooke.

"Nice day."

"Very nice."

"Could I get some water?" he asked.

"Sure," said Brooke. She led him over to the cooler, where bottles were floating in ice water. They stood there, staring at each other wordlessly, but appreciatively, while he drank. "You're playing a great game out there, Alby," she finally thought of something to say.

"You think so?" he asked. Lost in his hazel eyes, she didn't answer.

Gradually, a few more thirsty Taj drifted over looking for water.

"You guys look really great today," said Emily to the three gathered around her.

"Do you think so?" they asked.

"Uh-huh," she answered.

"You look really pretty today, Emily," one of them said.

"Thank you, Colm," she answered.

Hugh punched Colm in the arm. "I was gonna say that!" he snarled. "Thank you, too, Hugh," said Emily. All was well again. Jennifer and Claire also had clusters of admiring Taj gathered around them.

A young Taj approached Catherine. "So, I haven't seen you before. What's your name?" he asked, but was immediately swept away by a metal folding chair, wielded by Vincent.

"Now it's a party," quipped Brooke.

One of the older Taj took Vincent by the arm, and pulled him back. "If she's yours, put your mark on her. If she has no mark, don't beat your brothers for approaching her."

Vincent sighed, and took a step toward Catherine. The young Taj he'd hit with the chair came up behind him with the same chair, and let him have it across the back. Vincent shrugged. "I had that coming. I apologize, Jarlath."

"Next time, if you're not going to give her a ring, at least hike your leg and pee on a female so a Taj can know who's taken," he snarled. He stomped back to the game.

"When you're right, you're right," he said, and stepped up to Catherine.

"Tell me there will be no leg hiking," said Catherine.

"No. Can I take you to the garden, Catherine?" he asked

"I'd love to," she answered.

He sat her down on the bench in the gazebo. "I'll be back," he said. In a few minutes he returned and sat down next to her. They sat for a long time in silence, not touching. Finally, he sighed.

"Catherine, you are a beautiful woman. You're unbelievably smart, talented, brave, kind, warm…you could go anywhere you wanted to go and do anything you wanted to do. You could have any man you wanted. You could live a life of beauty, excitement, travel to exotic places." He knelt down in front of her and took her hands in his. "I'm asking you to lose your mind, give all that up, and stay here with me. Your future here will include hard, dirty, manual labor, sweating, cleaning, cooking, sore muscles, dangerous farm labor, obtaining your clothes from thrift stores, and living in a cultural wasteland, compared to New York. You can look forward to making do and doing without; boredom is the only thing we have here in abundance."

He kissed her fingers. "But if you stay with me, Catherine, I will love you as no woman was ever loved. We will bond; we will no longer be two separate people, but truly one heart, one soul. I will cherish you, I will listen to you, and I will respect you. In sickness, in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, I will never take for granted your smile, or your loving looks. You will be my queen, and I shall be your champion. You will be happy, because I will not rest until you are. Catherine—will you make me the happiest Taj on earth? Will you say you'll stay, and join with me?"

"I could do all that and more," she answered, "but there are some promises you must make before I say 'yes'."

Just for a second, he was stunned that she didn't reject his proposal and laugh in his face. "Tell me," he said quickly.

"Do you promise to _believe_ that I choose you as my champion, that I trust you with my life, that I will follow where you lead?"

He knew what she was asking. He was going to have to stop the self doubting, the brooding, the reluctance to ask for what he wanted. But surely she could not be asking to subordinate her will to his? "I lead you?"

"You carry the light," she answered.

He felt more than understood what she meant. She was saying that he was her inspiration to always choose integrity over baseness. And while his position might be light-bearer, that didn't mean that her role, whatever it might reveal itself to be, was less important. "I promise."

"Do you promise to believe that I desire you above all others? To believe that my heart aches when we're apart, and that my soul hungers for you alone?"

This went to the heart of his self doubt. It would not be easy. "I promise."

"Do you promise to have steadfast faith that I love you today, and tomorrow I will love you yet more, in sickness, in health, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, all the days of our lives?"

That love already burned in his heart; he felt it. "I promise."

"Then I make my promise to you, Vincent, you shall be my champion, I shall be your beloved. I shall love you as no man was ever loved. It is my heart's only desire to bond with you, and for us now two, to join heart, soul and mind, and become one."

She put her hands on his shoulders; he circled her waist in his arms. They pressed their lips together and kissed, tenderly, deeply.

He pulled back and reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out a diamond ring, in a setting of white gold. He slipped it on her finger, and kissed it. Then, he took an ear cuff from his pocket, set it on her ear, and kissed it.

"We can pick out our wedding bands," he whispered, "but these were my mother's. I would like for you to have them."

She covered her mouth with her hands; he reached up, clasped her fingers in his hands, and kissed her. When he opened his eyes, he noticed a tear glistening on her cheek. He kissed it away, and marveled, _all these_ _months, never a tear…til now…_


End file.
